The Sick Boy and the Sitter
by sienna27
Summary: Universe A - Offshoot. Emily takes care of a sick Jack. H/P fluff. (One Shot)


**Author's Note**: Universe A, Offshoot story. You can read this as a standalone with the idea that H/P's relationship is not declared, but they are in love. Otherwise you can place it in Girl having taken place between Chapters 122 (Let Emily Be Emily) and 123 (Great Falls). This is a bit of fluff as this point in the Girl'verse is still in the white, and after Great Falls, it goes to all shades of grey.

One shot, right after "52 Pickup."

* * *

**Bonus Challenge #27**

Show: The Dick Van Dyke Show

Title Challenge: The Sick Boy &amp; The Sitter

_Mid-November 2008: Sunday_

* * *

**The Sick Boy and The Sitter**

Emily placed her just refilled glass of Diet Coke down on Hotch's coffee table before she plopped herself back down onto the couch cushion. Then she curled her bare feet back under the afghan, and picked up the remote. Finally, she hit play on the movie that she'd been watching just before she'd headed into the kitchen for the Diet Coke refill.

Uncle Buck.

Her eyes crinkled when John Candy appeared onscreen again.

Though she hadn't seen this movie in years, given her assignment for the evening . . . watching Jack . . . she'd felt that the babysitting storyline was quite apropos when she'd found it in the cable, On Demand options.

Really it was just a way to pass the time until Hotch got home from Quantico.

And that was of course the reason that she was there by herself watching Jack . . . Hotch got dragged into work. Early that afternoon, some jackass had blown up something halfway around the world. An event which immediately resulted in the official threat level being raised at four U.S. embassies in the South Pacific. Then shortly thereafter, the BAU had been asked for an "official refresher" on their contribution to the war against terror.

Aka . . . _The Dummy's Guide on How to Spot an Asshole before He Makes Himself Into a Human Pipe Bomb._

It wasn't the first time that they'd needed to conduct this emergency tutorial, and sadly it would not be the last. But given that it was now quite routine . . . and the team had just returned to town the night before after a messy three day case . . . Hotch had decided not to drag everyone in again for an easy rundown.

So he and Dave alone were at Quantico covering a meeting/conference call with Strauss, and representatives from almost a dozen embassies and other agencies. The two of them had gone in five hours ago, and Emily was _really_ hoping that they'd finish up soon. Not that she didn't adore Jack, because she absolutely did, and she'd been tickled pink that Haley had offered to extend Hotch's visitation from Sunday to Tuesday, because they'd been traveling. But it was almost nine now, and the littlest Hotchner had long since gone to bed.

Emily was getting lonely.

John Candy just was no substitute for Aaron Hotchner.

Especially given that she had been hoping to have the whole afternoon together with BOTH of the Hotchner boys. But unfortunately . . . a wry smile touched her lips as she flopped back against the couch . . . this work emergency had kind of f'd things up. When Hotch had left them a little after three thirty, it had been with the hope that he'd be home by bath time at seven. Unfortunately bath time had come and gone with only a text message from him apologizing for still being held up. Then he promised that he'd be home as soon as he could, and would she please give Jack a hug and a goodnight kiss from him. She'd texted back a, "no problem hon," and signed it with an X and an O.

As long as they were discussing hugs and kisses she'd decided to toss him a few of her own. And she'd been absolutely delighted when Hotch had typed back, "miss you too sweetheart."

A soft sigh escaped her lips.

Hotch was really the best platonic boyfriend a girl could have. He was certainly more attentive and affectionate than any man who had ever actually _declared_ his romantic intentions for her. So she figured as long as things were going this well with no declarations whatsoever, she was making out pretty good.

Though admittedly even with how well things were moving along, when she was reading that evening text, she'd suddenly, and unexpectedly, flashed on what it must have been like for Haley, getting those exact same little notes from Hotch while he was away one assignment or another.

The father existing only on the other end of the cell phone.

Then of course she'd felt an immediate stab of guilt for even thinking such an unkind thought . . . however fleetingly. But you can't help the neurons that fire in your brain. And she knew that the demands of Hotch's work weren't his fault, then or now. But she also knew how hard he really was trying to do things differently in the now. Because he wasn't the same man that Haley had divorced.

Not to mention, she sure as hell as wasn't Haley!

Because really, that night could have just as easily gone the other way around. Hotch could have stayed home with Jack, and she might have gone in to do the calls with Dave.

After all, his job was her job too.

And that was the HUGE, bright line divide differentiating her current relationship with Hotch, versus Haley's past one. She and Hotch shared both the personal and professional.

Which was why Emily was sure that they could make it work.

They just needed a little time.

And in the interim . . . her lips twitched . . . it was fun just playing pretend family with the Hotchner boys. Like tonight with Jack, it was actually the first time that she'd handled his bath without Hotch around at all. She was surprised at how well things had gone.

Of course it probably helped that Jack was a little tired from the walk she'd taken him on just before dinner.

So with him slightly subdued, and his little legs worn out, there hadn't been the usual dive bombing duckies, splish splash extravaganza that Emily had grown accustomed to over the last few months. Yes, he had bopped his rubber ducky around in the water a bit, but for the most part he just sat there quietly as she washed his hair and cleaned him up.

Honestly, if she didn't know better, she'd think that he had taken pity on her.

Emily snorted to herself as she leaned forward to take a sip of coke . . . but that was probably a bit farfetched. Though she was the first to proclaim what an exceptional little boy Jack Hotchner was . . . he definitely got his daddy's brains, heart and dimples . . . still, even with her bias, she had to allow that level of empathy and forethought was probably just a _smidge_ beyond him. After all, he was barely a week into his fourth year on the planet.

At his age, nose picking was still a prized past time.

So basically she figured that she had just lucked out tonight with him being a bit sleepy from their playtime in the park. Her eyes shot down to the cable clock.

And if Jack's daddy would hurry up and get home, then she might get even luckier still.

Okay . . . Emily rolled her eyes as she settled back on the couch again . . . unfortunately she couldn't get _lucky_, lucky. They weren't yet to that stage in their _'slow as molasses yet she wouldn't trade a second with Hotch for anything' _relationship. But . . . her eyes crinkled . . . they could cuddle. And he would wrap his arms around her and rub her back and kiss her temple and basically reassure her in a dozen different ways that he loved her, and that if she was just patient with him then eventually they would figure all this out.

Eventually he'd be ready to take the big step.

Physical, emotional, whatever . . . she felt a little touch of melancholy in her heart . . . any step would do.

And regardless of their non-declarative status, cuddling was really the best way to start the week anyway.

It was just then that Emily heard a sound coming from somewhere down the hall. But she couldn't quite make out what it was, so her brow wrinkled as she reached over to click mute on the remote.

The room went silent . . . the whole apartment went silent . . . and she was just about to dismiss the noise as only her imagination, when suddenly there was a sobbed, "Miss Emily!"

She bolted off the couch.

"Coming baby!" She yelled while racing down the hall, then she smashed through Jack's half closed door . . . it bounced back against the wall . . . and snapped on the light.

"Sweetie, wha . . .?!"

And then she saw it. Not an intruder (which she was prepared to beat into a state of unconsciousness) or a spider (which she was also prepared to beat into a state of unconsciousness), but something else. Something that she had actually NOT prepared herself for.

Vomit.

Jack had thrown up all over, EVERYTHING! Like dear freaking GOD, she wouldn't have thought he'd been fed enough food that day to regurgitate what she saw in front of her! And there was her poor sweet boy, sobbing there in the middle of it.

"Oh baby," she hurried over to help him out of bed, "it's okay. Come on," she bit down her wince while trying to keep her hands off the grosser parts of the blankets, "we'll get you cleaned up."

So she scooped him out of the bed, and quickly carried him down the hall to the bathroom. There she stripped off his dirty pajamas, and started a lukewarm shower. Once she got him under the soft spray, and the worst of the mess cleaned off his hands and chest, she squeezed his fingers and said she'd be right back. Then she bolted out of the bathroom, and back down to his room.

There she stripped the bed in five seconds flat.

That was when she discovered that, thank God, Hotch kept a plastic covering for the bottom layer over the mattress pad. It was likely there just in case Jack had an accident, but . . . her nose wrinkled as a bit of vomit wafted up it . . . it worked just as well as a protection against other bodily fluids.

So the only real tragedy in the mass of bedding that she scooped up, was poor Mr. Bobo. As Jack's most trusted friend, and ever present nighttime companion, he'd unfortunately been caught at ground zero of the splash zone.

He was mess.

But that was okay . . . she ran back out and down to the bathroom . . . as long as Jack was in the shower, Mr. Bobo could join him for a wash.

And once the blankets and pillows were dropped on the tile by the door, with just Mr. Bobo now in hand, Emily rushed back over to the tub.

Though she'd only been gone for about eleven seconds, somehow Jack had managed to start crying again in just that small sliver of time. And as always, seeing his little tears broke her heart. But after reminding herself that this was what it was like to have children . . . they were going to regularly break your heart, and you just needed to accept it . . . she reached over into the bathtub, to pull the little Hotchner into a hug.

A very wet one.

"It's okay, baby," she murmured in his ear while the shower spray splattered her shirt, "I'm right here, and we're just going to wash you up, and put clean sheets on the bed, and everything will be as good as new."

Hopefully.

That was all providing Jack didn't throw up again.

And that was a BIG if to gamble the rest of their night on. But if they were lucky, it was just something that hadn't agreed with his stomach, and now that he'd gotten sick, he'd be okay.

Fingers and toes crossed.

Either way, she did a gentle scrub down from Jack's top, to his little bottom, to his little tiny toes, with the Johnson and Johnson 'No More Tears' shampoo and body wash. And after she'd gotten her charge clean, she dumped about a quarter of the remaining bottle of soap, onto poor Mr. Bobo.

Then she gave him a solid scrubbing as well.

Ideally, he'd be taking a run through the wash machine, but she figured with Jack not feeling well, the ONE thing in the world that he'd be looking for when he was put back in his bed, was his best bear friend. And sure enough, just seeing that Mr. Bobo too needed to take a bath, was enough to start a fresh set of big fat tears, sliding down Jack's sweet little face.

And these were tears that Emily wasn't quite sure how to address.

After all, it wasn't as though Mr. Bobo had been lost in a fire or something. He was fine. Just a bit wet.

Or, really . . . she gave him a good wringing out . . . _sopping_, wet.

"Hold on baby," she murmured to Jack with a little smile, while reaching over to turn the shower off, "we just have to get you guys dried off, and then you can have him back."

So she pulled Jack out of the tub and wrapped him up in a big fluffy tower. Basically it enveloped his entire body, again from top to toes. Then she gave Mr. Bobo another sniff (smelled clean) and squeeze (few more water droplets) over the bathtub.

Then she wrapped him up in a towel too.

Though a much smaller one than Jack's. Jack though, she scooped him up, and after a few minutes of just cuddling him to her chest . . . which probably did her as much good as him . . . his tears stopped, so she carried him down to the living room. Given that she wasn't sure whether or not he was done throwing up yet, she didn't want to put him into fresh PJs until she'd gotten a few things sorted out. The first of which, was to lay him down on the couch, and give him an empty trash can (with a double bag liner in it). Then she explained that if his, "tummy feels funny again," he should lean over and put his face over the bucket.

Fortunately he seemed to get the gist there. Because she got a sad, half hearted sniffle and nod, which just resulted in Emily reaching down to pull him up into another hug.

Seriously the kid was KILLING her!

But she knew that as much as she wanted to, she couldn't snuggle with him all night. Not yet anyway. Because there was stuff that she needed to get cleaned up before it was all completely ruined.

Before she left the living room though, she switched out the John Candy movie for the one that she and Jack had been watching before he'd gone to bed.

Toy Story.

And after giving him a minute to get engrossed in the animated characters . . . he was now staring, glassy eyed at the television, with the towel wrapped Mr. Bobo, clenched in his own little towel clad arms . . . Emily patted his leg.

"Good boy," she murmured, right before making another mad dash down to the bathroom.

There she broke a land speed record in vomit removal by scraping off all the 'ick' that Jack had hurled onto his bed clothes, and dumping it down the toilet.

Fortunately years of working with all manner of vile and disgusting bodily fluids, had made her relatively immune to the grossness of the task she was undertaking.

Basically she only gagged once.

But once everything was at least free of 'chunks' (mac and cheese was definitely now a major dinner regret) she poked her head back into the living room to verify that Jack was continuing to lie still and quiet while watching his movie.

Yes.

So once more she hurried to the bathroom. That time she scooped the whole big dirty mess up again, and hoisted it down to the laundry room.

The laundry 'room' was really just a space slightly bigger than a walk in closet which contained Hotch's building issued, washer and dryer.

But at least he actually had a set in the apartment, because if this was happening at her place, she'd be scrubbing this shit out in the tub.

That was a ponderance for another time though.

For in this time, in this apartment, she dumped everything she was carrying into the wash machine in front of her. That action was followed up by a cap full of detergent and a quarter of a cap full of bleach. Once everything started swishing around and sudsing up, she yanked off her tank top and bra, and stepped out of her pajama pants.

She tossed all of that into the wash too.

Given that she'd been lugging both the ick covered Jack, and the ick covered, sheets around in her arms, odds were good, that she'd also been contaminated top to bottom.

So with the machine now going, in her half naked state, she ducked out of the laundry to hurry two doors down to Hotch's bedroom. After she'd closed the door halfway . . . just enough so that Jack wouldn't get a full peep show if he somehow wandered in . . . she continued on and over to the master bathroom.

There she did a quick wash of her upper body with just hot water, and copious quantities of the pink, pomegranate scented, antibacterial, hand soap. Then she dried herself off with the small hand towel hanging on the rack by the sink. By the time she was done drying herself, the vanity, and the puddles on the floor (sink showers were a messy business), the towel was sopping wet.

So that went directly into the laundry hamper.

And now that she was once more feeling (and smelling) clean herself . . . the vomit had actually soaked through her clothes and onto her chest, uck . . . Emily went back into Hotch's bedroom to find clean clothes.

Though she knew that she had some laundry mixed into the clean basket of clothes on the end chair, instead of digging in there to find her own shirt, she decided to just take the one she could see laying inside out on the end of the bed. It was an oversized Harvard T-shirt.

The one that Hotch had been wearing before he'd had to change to go into the office.

After she put it right side out again, and slipped it over her head, she could see that it fell down almost mid-thigh on her. Good enough. If it was any earlier in the night, she'd go dig out some pants too, but it was late, and it was bedtime.

So . . . she waved her hand . . . screw it.

And now that she was once more a 'decent,' child care worker, she went down to pop her head back into the living room again.

Yes. And actually it looked like his eyes were started to droop.

Perfect.

But she didn't want to have to worry about trying to dress, or move a sleeping boy off the couch, so she hurried down to get him clean underwear and pajamas, and Mr. Bobo a fresh, dry, towel.

It took about thirty seconds to get the two of them changed into their, 'bedclothes.'

And with Jack's lashes once more fluttering . . . it was well past his bedtime . . . she settled him back on the couch with a kiss on the cheek, and a blanket for him and Mr. Bobo to share.

"Three minutes baby," she whispered, "then you can go back to bed."

Seeing that her words didn't even seem to be registering, Emily knew her window of getting Jack to bed while still awake, was rapidly closing. So she went back into Tazmanian Devil mode, to get his room in order again.

First she ran down to get the cleaning supplies from the top shelf in Hotch's bathroom . . . the only place he kept any chemicals. Then she went back to Jack's room wearing rubber gloves, and carrying the container of Lysol wipes. She used up a half dozen of them cleaning the headboard, the lamp, and everything on the bedside table.

Including Jack's little stack of books.

Though the spewing appeared to have been restricted to just his blankets, you never know. But by the time she was done cleaning his room, and had given it a spray of floral scented Lysol, you could no longer smell even a hint of vomit.

And with all that addressed, she pulled fresh sheets, blankets, and pillows out of the linen closet. Two minutes later, the bed was now covered in clean fire truck sheets, and a matching comforter.

At that point she was starting to get a little sleepy herself . . . it was a lot of work running around like an idiot(!) . . . but fortunately the next time she went down to check on Jack, she could that he was on the verge of hitting dreamland.

Perfect timing.

It was a bit of a shift, but yes, she did get Jack down and into his clean bed without him fully waking up again. As a bonus, she was also able to slip the still water logged Mr. Bobo out of his arms without him realizing it either.

She slid a stuffed raccoon (Ricky) in there as a placeholder.

And with Jack now once more sleeping, and his stomach (apparently) settled, Emily sent up a silent prayer that nothing would change on either of those points. So after pressing a kiss to his chubby little cheek, she slowly snuck, backwards, out of his room.

She had the purloined Mr. Bobo tucked under her left arm.

And after stopping in the hallway to scrub him over with one last Lysol wipe, she brought him down and tossed him into the dryer with two Downey sheets.

That bear was going to smell like a SPRING RAIN by morning!

Then she collected the mop bucket out from under Hotch's sink, placed another double plastic bag lining in there, and brought that down to put it next to Jack's bed.

The last thing she did for cleanup, was give the bathtub a good scouring with bleach. Once she was all done, with ALL that, she washed her hands, and staggered down to the living room again.

After she'd dropped down onto the couch cushion she'd last left about thirty-five minutes earlier, Emily picked up her cell phone. Though she didn't want Hotch to worry, after all Jack did seem fine now, and she did have things under control, she knew that the boy's father would definitely want to know that his son had gotten sick. A fact that she conveyed in a very succinct text message.

_Don't panic, but Jack threw up. Just once, seems fine now. Got him and Mr. Bobo cleaned up and back to sleep. Everything's under control. I promise :) See you when you get here._

_E_

Once she'd hit send, for a second Emily held onto the phone, just in case Hotch was going to write back. And sure enough, ten seconds later, it vibrated it in her hand.

_Thanks for taking care of him. If he wakes up again, please give him a kiss and tell him I'll be home soon. They just setup another call, a 4__th__, but going to see if Dave can take it alone._

_-A_

For a second, Emily tapped her finger on the screen, then she typed back one more brief message.

_\- I'll cross my fingers :)_

And with that, she bit back a yawn, before leaning over to pick up her long forgotten Diet Coke. With all the running around, she was thirsty enough that she sucked half the glass down . . . then she just finished it off. And now with really nothing left to do but wait for Hotch . . . she wasn't in the mood to watch her movie anymore . . . she decided to go stretch out on his bed. It would be more comfortable, plus she could hear Jack better from that end of the apartment.

So after she brought her dirty glass out to the sink, she snatched her phone up off the couch, and headed back to Hotch's bedroom.

God . . . she shot a pout up to the sky . . . please let him be home soon.

/*/*/*/*/

Hotch got home a little before eleven.

Damn terrorists had fucked up his whole Sunday. Though he'd actually gotten out of there a little earlier than he should have, because an hour after Emily texted him . . . just as Strauss told him that the director wanted to do a final wrap up call . . . he'd put his hand up, and said no. He told Strauss that his son was sick, and he had to leave. And there wasn't much that she could say to that, because he'd already been there for seven hours, and the conference calls had reached that circular logic stage, where they were just answering the same questions over and over. And there was certainly NOTHING that the director needed to know, that Strauss couldn't just pass along all on her own.

But to that point, Dave promised to stay and back her up just in case there were any unusual questions. So with a promise to make it up to Dave the next time they got screwed with this duty, Hotch had grabbed his jacket and phone, and run out of there like his hair was on fire.

And now that he'd arrived home, as he stepped inside his apartment, he could see that the living room lights were restricted to just the table lamps, and the TV was showing the Blu-Ray default screen.

The Toy Story box was sitting open on the coffee table.

So with one question answered as to how Emily and Jack had spent the evening, Hotch quietly dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, tossed his jacket over the back of the couch, and started down the hall.

When he reached Jack's room, he slowly pushed the partially closed door back so he could poke his around the corner.

What he saw from the glow of the batman nightlight, was that Jack's eyes were closed, and his little chest was rising and falling. And it was doing so in a slow and steady rhythm.

He was sound asleep.

Though when Hotch stepped fully into his son's bedroom, he found his brow wrinkling slightly when he saw that there were clearly different sheets on the bed than when his son had gotten up that day. At that time, there had been SpongeBob ones on there, but these now were generic fire trucks. Also, the blanket wasn't the usual beige one. This one was blue and appeared to be from the small stack of extras Hotch kept in his linen closet.

When you did what he did for a living, these were the kinds of things that you noticed immediately.

Then Hotch took note of the little mop bucket on the floor next to the bed and . . . it all came together.

Jack hadn't just thrown up, he'd thrown up IN his bed.

When Emily had texted him that Jack had gotten sick, he'd just assumed she'd meant in the bathroom. It really had NOT occurred to him that she had meant WHILE he was sleeping!

Uck . . . Hotch's nose wrinkled as he walked up to the bed . . . that must have been a mess.

And after checking Jack's forehead with the back of his hand, (cool) Hotch gave him a kiss, and fixed his blankets, because that's what dads did. Then he slowly backed out of the room before he inadvertently woke his boy up.

It wasn't until he'd actually stepped back into the hallway, and was pulling the door closed again, that Hotch took conscious note of the sounds of the dryer whirring behind the levered doors. He realized then that not only had Emily put clean sheets on the bed, but she'd already washed all of the dirty bed linens too.

God, she was an angel.

And as he walked down to his bedroom all he could think was how perfect an official stepmother she was going to be, once they got all the rest of their issues sorted out. And he was also trying to think of just what to do to say thank you to her for taking care of what had to have been a HUGE mess, that she very easily could have just left for him to clean up.

Really, she could have just tossed the blankets into the tub, and left the whole shebang in there for him to clean up when he got home.

But no, when he walked into the bathroom, he saw that the tub was sparkling and smelled strongly of disinfectant and bleach. Which meant that basically she'd cleaned up not only his son, and his sheets, but EVERYTHING that his son and his sheets, had come into contact with!

Again, ANGEL!

So when Hotch finally reached his bedroom door, he stopped short, and his heart began to warm when he saw that Emily was curled up, on top of his comforter. Even though she was asleep, her cell phone was still clutched to her chest, and he could see that she was now wearing just the t-shirt that he'd had on earlier in the day. That made him very happy. That she was wearing his clothes that is, not that she sleeping all alone in that big bed.

No . . . he stepped over the threshold . . . no, that wouldn't do at all.

And as he crossed the room, Hotch was kicking off his shoes, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. The shirt and tie ended up in a pile on the floor, trailing just passed the shoes. Then he climbed up onto the mattress wearing just his undershirt, dress pants, and gun.

He curled his body around Emily's.

Though he knew that he needed to finish changing . . . not to mention that he hadn't consumed any solid food in almost twelve hours . . . for just a second, this, holding her, was so much more important than anything else he could possibly be doing.

And it took only a moment of his presence before he heard the murmur of, "hey stranger," coming from the woman in his arms. His eyes crinkled as she rolled over and snuggled against his chest.

"Hello sweetheart," he whispered back while dipping his head down to press a kiss to her cheek, "thank you so much for taking care of Jack, and for cleaning everything up before I got home. I'll," he sighed, "well I guess I can't really think of a proper way to make that one up to you."

Only if she had a child of her own, could there ever be an even trade for such an evening.

Emily's eyes popped open . . . Jack.

Oh crap!

Feeling a jolt of panic, she immediately pushed herself back from Hotch, wriggling away so she could sit up.

"Damn it," her brow knitted anxiously, "I didn't mean to fall asleep before you got home. I'm sorry," her eyes shot towards the door, "is he okay?" Then she started to swing her legs around to go check on him herself . . . one foot skirted the carpet.

"He didn't get sick again, did he?"

"No, no sweetheart," Hotch hastened to reassure her even as his arm caught around her waist, "he's fine. I just checked him, he's sleeping. And he's not hot or sweaty, so it doesn't look like there's any fever. It was most likely just a little bug. Kids pick them up all the time. He'll probably be good as new by the time he wakes up tomorrow."

"Well," Emily slowly pulled her leg back up onto the mattress, "if you're sure."

Hotch's eyes crinkled as he looked over at her.

"I am most definitely sure. Now then," he continued softly while shifting them up, and pulling her back to his chest, "besides spending, what was probably at least a half hour, cleaning up regurgitated food stuffs, what else did you do tonight without me?"

"Well," Emily let out a sigh as she snuggled closer, "let's see. We played Candy Land like, seven times. I think I lost every time. And we went for a walk, and caught a worm, let him go, caught an ant, let him go, caught a beetle, let him go." She tipped her head back to give Hotch a sleepy smile, "there was a lot of catch and release."

Hotch chuckled.

"Sounds like it, so anything else of note happen at the park?"

"Yeah," she huffed, "we tried to catch a butterfly but," she huffed out a raspberry, "he was a quick son of a bitch, so we just had to wave goodbye to him when he headed into the bushes. And then . . ."

As Emily went on to explain about making dinner, and bath time, and the eighties movie that she watched without him, Hotch brushed his fingers through her hair. He just liked to listen to her talk.

But then he felt her twisting around, just before she raised up her left leg slightly.

"And I found this," she brushed her fingers along her thigh, "like an hour ago when I came in here."

"What?" Hotch's brow wrinkled as he pushed himself up, and reached down to check her leg, "is it a bump?"

Before she could answer, he nodded to himself.

"Uh," his thumb brushed lightly back and forth along her thigh, right above knee, "yeah, I feel it." Then he looked over at her, "does it hurt?"

She pouted. "Little bit. Though," she gave him a shy smile, "not so much when you're touching it."

Actually, the way he was caressing her leg felt REALLY nice. So much so, that she very much wished that they were back in Vegas, and drunk out of their minds. Then that that caress could move just SMIDGE further up her leg.

And maybe a little higher still.

And she could see from faint dimple that Hotch shot her, that he too was likely thinking of other activities, and other days. But then he surprised her by leaning over to give her a quick kiss.

It was just a peck on the lips, but it was still soft and romantic. Enough to actually bring a faint sting to her eyes. Then she felt his arm sliding around her waist, and he scooped her up and into his lap.

And as he cuddled her close, and kissed her temple, he resumed that gentle caress of her sore leg. It was just his thumb, but it was so soft and delicate.

A bit like the wings of that butterfly that had flown away.

"You know you did an excellent job playing nurse tonight," Hotch murmured into Emily's ear, "and I will cover the overnight shift, but I think you should probably still stay here as backup just in case."

Even though Emily only lived a few blocks away, he was trying to oh so subtly convince her to sleep in his bed rather than going back to her own.

Sleeping together was a fairly regular thing for them now, so that in and of itself wasn't such a big sell. But tomorrow was a work day, and usually on work days, because he required much less time to get ready in the morning (no hair or make up to fuss around with), Hotch was the one sleeping at her house.

Not the other way around.

So she was probably imagining a bit of hassle getting dressed in the morning . . . he kissed her forehead . . . and he was trying to convince her that hassle or no hassle, it would be much better for her to stay.

A little spot of warmth spread out in Emily's chest as she lightly nuzzled his throat.

"But, I don't have any clean suits here," she whispered apologetically, "and I got some kind of ick on my Atlanta one."

It was either old blood or decomp fluid, hard to tell on the black cloth. They both smelled terrible. Either way, she had pretreated it with Hotch's stain wash and shoved it into a bag for the cleaners. So bottom line, she'd love to stay curled up with him for the rest of the night, but she couldn't very well wear pajamas to the office.

And _Hotch's_ pajamas at that.

Never one to be easily deterred by something so simple as 'facts,' Hotch immediately countered, "but Emily, you do have clean underwear and at least two bras, in that stack of laundry in the basket. And last week I bought some of that new fancy shampoo and conditioner that you said you liked so much. They're under the sink. So you see," he tapped his index finger on her leg, "you can shower here and do your hair, put on my sweats and then we can stop at your condo on the way in so you can change into a clean suit and do your makeup."

Emily looked up at him with a little pout.

"You bought me that fancy shampoo and conditioner?"

God, he was such a sweetie.

"I did." He nodded, "because you said you liked the trial size and you wanted to get the big ones, so I picked them up. And that means," he shot her a dimple, "that you don't have to go home. You can stay here."

Emily grinned.

"Really driving hard to the net tonight, huh?" She chuckled.

"Yes, well," Hotch's hand stilled on her leg, "I only was able to see you for a few hours today."

Just because they'd been working together all week, didn't mean that made up for missing off duty time with her.

Not by half.

"Hmm," Emily's eyes crinkled, "this is true. So," she gave him a good natured eye roll, "I guess your plan makes sense. But," she shook her finger at him, "we have to get up early. Because I'm not going to work looking like Walk of Shame Girl with my hair a mess and my clothes all disheveled." She gave him a look, "I have a reputation you know."

Hotch's mouth began to quiver.

"Am I supposed to guess now what kind?"

The question had no sooner left his mouth, than Emily had smacked his chest.

"Hey!" She scowled, "unchivalrous comments like that, are not going to get you a warm bed tonight, pal!" She poked her finger in his face, "because you know I'll leave right now, and you can just cuddle up with Mr. Bobo!"

Though Emily was only joking in her threat to leave, she could tell from the smirk that Hotch was trying to hide from her, that he wasn't even pretending to take her threat seriously. So in an effort to regain the high ground there . . . he could not be allowed to win these little skirmishes, it set a bad precedent . . . she tried to double down on the scowl. But rather than wiping the smirk from his face, all that did was elicit a full blown, two dimpled, grin.

_What the hell?!_

"I'm sorry sweetheart," Hotch brought his hand up to Emily's cheek as he began to chuckle, "I'm trying not to laugh. But it is impossible to take your grumpy face seriously, when you have no pants on and then you threaten me with a Mr. Bobo cuddle." His eyes crinkled as he shook his head slowly. "It's like being threatened by a Care Bear."

Though she was an adorable Care Bear, Hotch was also aware that she was one who could pack quite the right hook. And seeing her eyebrow start to twitch even as her mouth quivered, he was deducing that it was a draw as to whether Emily was more amused, or annoyed, by his laughter. But in the interest of simply resolving the situation, he decided it was time to take evasive action.

He flipped her.

And as she rolled to her back with an astonished, "hey," he quickly straddled her thighs, while leaning over to catch both of her wrists with one hand. Of course he wasn't hurting her, and she could knee him quite nicely if she wanted to . . . it's not like he was holding her like he would an UNSUB . . . but for the moment, her movements were restricted. And before she could get out more than an, "unfair tactics, SIR!" he leaned down and pressed his finger to her lips.

"If you promise not to hit me for calling you a Care Bear," he whispered, "or pinning you to the bed, I will apologize for calling you a Care Bear and pinning you to the bed," he tipped his head, "agreed?"

For a second she just stared up at him, then with a roll of her eyes she mumbled around his finger, "agreed."

So Hotch slowly released his hold on her wrists, while simultaneously taking his finger away from her mouth.

He was still straddling her thighs though. A point much more obvious now that he saw how her t-shirt had ridden up to her waist when he'd flipped her over. So after a mouthed, "sorry," and a gentle pat to her side, he fixed the bunched up material.

Once the crimson was once more covering down over Emily's hips and to her legs, he looked up to see that her arms were now crossed under her breasts.

Given her stance, he figured that he was in for an earful. So he braced himself.

Though to his surprise, all he got was an eyebrow, and a set to her jaw.

"For the Care Bear remark," she stated flatly, "I will require a collection of punitive damages as well."

The pinning to the bed, she could forgive . . . she'd done that to him once in the living room over a battle for the remote control. But for being called a _CARE BEAR_, oh no, he was paying for that! Though she had to admit, just seeing that faint glint of fear come into the eyes of a man who was afraid of essentially, nothing, was ALMOST enough for her to let it go with just the threat.

Almost.

And then she saw him take a breath.

"What do you want?" He asked on what could only be described as a resigned, exhale.

"The bathroom," she immediately shot back.

"Oh Emily," He sputtered, "come on!"

But again she was ready for him.

"No," she shook her head, "you did this to yourself! I want the bathroom."

The bathroom in question, was the off the master bedroom . . . presently four feet away from where they were lying on the bed. Since Hotch had moved into the apartment, she'd been trying to get him to paint the walls from the GOD AWFUL _Fog Horn Grey_ (that was the actual name on the touch up can under the sink), that they'd come with on date of rental. Seriously, it was depressing enough in there to make puppies weep. But every time she brought up redecorating, he just waved her off with an, "Emily, I spend ten minutes a day in that room, what difference does the wall color make?"

Yeah, he was such a man sometimes, it was ridiculous.

And even now she could see the pained flicker of emotions passing over his face. Finally he reached the one she was waiting for . . . resignation.

Then he slipped off of her legs, and flopped down next to her on the mattress.

One of the pillows fell to the floor.

"No pink," he mumbled into her shoulder, and she grinned.

"I promise," she murmured back with a kiss to his forehead, "no pink, and no baby animals."

Then she brushed her fingers through his hair.

"So now that our world is right again," she whispered, "are you hungry? Want me to make you a snack?"

That time she felt him nod against her shoulder.

"Yes please," was the responding mumble, "I'm starving."

So she patted his arm, and started to wriggle to the side, but before she'd moved more than two inches away, she felt Hotch's arm snake around her waist.

"Wait," he called out while tugging her back, "I forgot to tell you something earlier."

"What was that?" she asked with a brush of her fingertips along his cheek . . . she could feel the five o'clock shadow.

Then his eyes snapped up to hers, and he shot her a half a dimple.

"I missed you today."

Feeling her eyes immediately start to sting, Emily leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Yeah," she slipped her arms around his waist, "I missed you too." Then she sighed against his chest, "it's too bad tomorrow's a work day."

"Actually," Hotch patted her back, "given that I had to go in for seven hours today when I supposed to have that time with my son, I told Strauss I was taking those seven hours back tomorrow. I'm just going to clean up whatever's on my desk, do the morning briefing, and head out. So I was wondering," he tipped his head back to look down at her, "if you'd like to take a couple of the five thousand overtime hours you're owed, and catch up with us for a walk around the monuments, in the afternoon?"

"Um," Emily pretended to thinking about it for a minute, "I guess, I could maybe do that." Then she grinned at him, "I feel like I forgot that I had a dentist appointment tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh yeah," Hotch nodded slowly as he rolled onto his back, pulling Emily with him, "that's right," he murmured, "you did say that you were due for a cleaning."

Not that she needed to make any excuses to take the time that she was owed, but, it was easier with the gossips in the office, if she had an officially announced, "appointment," to attend.

He on the other hand, had no intention of explaining his departure to anyone at all. Dave already knew his plans for the day . . . he was there when Hotch made the declaration to Strauss . . . and besides Emily, he was the only one that Hotch felt at all accountable to. And he wasn't even 'really' accountable to either one of them. They were just the only two who would feel free to bust his balls for the next week, if he didn't tell them where he was going, if he walked out the door five minutes earlier than usual.

Though as Hotch felt Emily settling against his chest, and nuzzling his throat, he was very much wishing that this particular activity was one that they could spend the day doing as well. Then he realized that if he got his ducks lined up now, they _could_ do it tomorrow.

"Hey," he patted her back, "would you mind a couple of rogue bachelors staying over tomorrow night?"

Feeling Emily start to chuckle, right before she lifted her head up, Hotch knew that he already had his yes.

"Rogue bachelors?" She snorted. "That actually sounds kind of dangerous. But given that one of you, 'rogues,' is only two feet tall," she smiled, "I'm guessing it should be okay."

"But I'm over six feet," Hotch pointed out with an obscene waggling of his eyebrows, "what are you going to do to me?"

At first Emily just bit down on her lip, but then she started to giggle, because DEAR GOD, did she have a list of things that she wanted to do to him! But alas, the ones currently on the table were only in the PG arena.

Still though, just for the question . . . and those ridiculous eyebrows . . . she leaned up and smacked a quick kiss to his lips. Then she pushed herself back with a grin.

"I'm going to make your snack now." She added with a pat to his chest, right before she combat rolled off the bed and bounced back to her feet.

Hotch started to laugh.

"Nice moves!" He called out as she started for the door, "that was smoother than Morgan's last jump out of the SUV!"

She was like a ninja!

"I know," Emily stopped in the doorway with her hand on her hip, and a smirk on her lips, "I was actually a little bit embarrassed for him." Then her eyebrow quirked up, "grilled cheese and tomato soup, okay, hon?"

Though there was actually probably a full bowl of macaroni and cheese leftover from dinner, after cleaning up the regurgitated version of it, she was planning on just dumping those remains in the trash.

"That's perfect sweetheart," he gave her a little smile, "thank you. I'll be out in a minute to help." He pushed himself up, "I just need to change first." Then he gave his t-shirt a sniff. "Actually I might take a quick shower," his nose wrinkled, "I smell like Strauss."

The woman had a very distinct floral perfume, which wasn't generally, 'offensive,' but after having been stuck in an enclosed space with her for seven hours, he now wreaked of it. And he could tell from the look on Emily's face, that she could smell it too.

"Oh, that's what that smell is," she shook her head, "I thought Dave had picked you up a French hooker."

The perfume actually wasn't that bad, but it was going to be a cold day in hell before she'd ever give Erin Strauss an inch.

She was a snake, and no matter how much time passed, would never be trusted.

"Actually," Hotch responded drily while sliding his gun into the safe by the bed, "I believe Dave only buys American, but," he turned to shoot her a smirk over his shoulder, "I see your point."

"Good boy," she winked, "I'll see you in ten."

Then she brought her hand up to her mouth . . . and blew him a kiss.

And then she was gone.

For a second Hotch just stood there, staring at the empty doorway.

He might not be mentally ready for the big talk yet, but . . . he bit down on his lip while undoing his belt . . . she deserved something for putting up with him until he was.

Flowers . . . he nodded to himself as he stepped out of his pants . . . and maybe a box of Godiva too. She loved the truffles. He'd give her the daisies, and he'd let Jack give her the candy. His lip quirked up.

He'd tell her they were house guest presents.

And with that, he dropped his boxers, and hurried off to the bathroom to rinse off the remnants of 'eau de'Strauss.'

_There was grilled cheese to eat!_

* * *

_A/N 2: See, nothing but fluff. And though I did consider putting this somewhere in Second Chances, I ended up liking the version better where they weren't having sex yet . . . let alone babies, so this was the best place to tuck it. And if you're trying to remember Emily pinning Hotch for the remote, that was Chapter 84 in Falling In Love with a Girl. Also, Emily's mentioning of 'unfair tactics,' harkened back something she did to him in Chapter 69 when he was buying this apartment._

_I actually have a bunch of stuff lined up for posting, so we'll see if some other stuff goes up this week._

_Thanks!_


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